Purveyor of Dreams
by danglingdingle
Summary: 725 words of a job gone well, when Eames decides to take a bit of a detour. Arthur/Eames slash


Yearning is not quite the word Arthur is looking for when he glances at Eames sipping his coffee.

Other than those lips curving into a (too) knowing smile over the rim, Eames doesn't let anything on.

Under those gray-blue eyes reminding Arthur of the sea, he can't help but to give a smile of his own.

Moments morph into hours while the workhouse is buzzing with anticipation. Everything's as it should.

Under, deeper into yet another unconscious mind, the trip down takes mere a blink. Arthur adapts.

Streetlights are flickering on when it's only him ad Eames in the dream, the job a blow of a whistle, done already.

The forger's part more significant than expected, so much more easier than either of them had thought.

Noting the distinct lack of the music preparing them for the kick, they find time in their hands.

The clock is ticking sluggishly, as if tired of robbing them minutes upon hours, and making amends.

Be as it may, with the projections at ease, a walk in the park, job without a hitch, Arthur is alarmed.

Every corner they turn, is familiar. Too familiar for his likes, even with the maze carved in his brain.

As if they shouldn't be there. Like they should be exactly here, Arthur's dream, with Eames's leisure.

For all Arthur knows, they may have slipped in deeper, but the mechanics escape him. Impossible.

Right from the start, Arthur had studied the PASIV through and through, certain of its glitches.

And still, it felt that this place had been designed for him and Eames alone. Even the beach in the distance beckoned as it had.

In Eames's behaviour, Arthur found nothing odd. Eames took Arthur's hand and guided him to a bench,

Dizziness that Arthur was starting to feel dissipating once he was steadily seated.

"The truth," Eames started, long since having relinquished Arthur's hand and curling them on his lap.

"Only a slight change in the compound can give us weeks under, shifting the dream. Yusuf's work."

Dawning on him, the revelation, Arthur wide eyed Eames who smiled apologetically, though,

Raunchiness flickered the corners of his lips. A tell, which Arthur knew better than his own skin.

Eames slouched further forward, hands between his knees, watching Arthur, wondering.

"As we don't get much in the ways of vacations, darling," Eames swayed a hand, displaying the city.

"My gift for you."

And the dream was taken over, shifting, sides of it a paradox before it crumbed down to make way.

Lilting to his side, Arthur could but stare agape scenery, lost every bit of control of his own dream.

Impossibly, Eames took over, confident, trusting that Arthur would let him do this, to dream...

Thoughtlessly, Arthur sought Eames's, earning Eames's other had cocooning Arthur's, breathless.

The beach was at their toes now, the ebb of the sea nearly caressing their shoed feet. Far enough.

Leaning forth, hand clamped in Eames's, Arthur tugged him up from the bench, the sitting down again.

Eames smiled down at the man untying his shoes, hastily removing his stock garters and the socks,

Behind him only a step, Eames followed Arthur into the sea, rolling his trousers above his knees.

It was the wind rather than the beach that caught Arthur smiling, happily, beatifically, as it picked up,

Gone with it the sense of trepidation gnawing the insides of him ever since the feel of familiarity,

Gone was the frail beginnings of anger first flared once it had became clear Eames was in control.

Eames. The only man in this world ,or any other, that Arthur would allow lose control for.

Right here, Arthur was free, the sea dazzling in his eyes as he waded deeper, not looking back.

"Darling," Eames tried to suppress his fond snirtle, but the sight of Arthur in his three-piece suit…

All manner of tidiness shot into oblivion, Arthur turns, trotting back towards Eames

"Really, it's only a dream," Arthur says explaining, nonetheless divesting himself of his clothes.

Lingering eyes which spied each movement bothered him none, sand in his trousers insignificant.

Instead, jealous of the expansion of skin having the audacity to reveal too little by Eames's collar.

"No," Eames whispered when Arthur made to pluck the hem of Eames's shirt from his waistband.

"Go. I'll be right there with you… Let me look."


End file.
